


and now i see daylight

by akosmia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, also rey takes care of ben when he's sick, they're soft alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akosmia/pseuds/akosmia
Summary: "Sorry, I– I live in the apartment next to yours and the night you moved in, you put on ABBA and started singing and I–" he explains, gesturing wildly and doing his best to look like a proper idiot, which is always an accomplishment from his part. "I started to call youABBA girlin my head."I also started to fall in love with your existence like the complete loser I am, he thinks.-- or: Ben falls in love with his new neighbor the moment he hears her sing ABBA at the top of her lungs one Thursday evening, and he isn't prepared for the wave of longing that it brings.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 139
Kudos: 652





	and now i see daylight

**Author's Note:**

> How many times I can use the same Taylor Swift song as a title???? I guess we'll find out!
> 
> As usual, this was inspired by a prompt on the amazing [reylo_prompts](https://twitter.com/reylo_prompts) twitter account (which is responsible for the increasing amount of WIP in my folder): _"Rey has noticed that her neighbor Ben is lonely and never has friends over nor does he go out. One day, she sees him sick as a dog with a nasty cold. She brings him soup, liquids, and medicine"_. I swear to God, it was supposed to be just a short fic with Rey taking care of her neighbor Ben while he's sick, but Ben wouldn't _just shut up_ and here we are, 10k words later. He just had a lot to say, apparently. Also somehow I always spent an obscene amount of words on "worldbuilding" or something like that.
> 
> Please, forgive me.

He realizes the apartment right next to his has been rented out when he hears his new neighbor blast ABBA at 11.30 PM on a Thursday night, just as he's trying his best to finish the work Snoke has not so gently implied he wanted done by tomorrow morning. 

The building he lives in isn't old by any standard, but it's not exactly new either and he discovers in this moment that the walls between the apartments are paper thin, because he hears her off-key rendition of _Dancing Queen_ as if she were belting it out in his own living room, and the weirdest thing of it all is – he kind of enjoys it. 

It should be crazy. 

It's late and he's tired and he should be sleeping right now, but instead he's sitting at his desk, working at his laptop and fighting through the migraine he feels mounting in his temples with gritted teeth while he tries to remember why he hasn't quit his job by now. He doesn't remember if he's eaten anything since coming home. He's run his hand through his hair more times than he can count on his fingers. His left eye has started to do that weird twitchy thing it often does when he's stressed out.

For all intents and purposes, he's two deep breath and one more text from Hux reminding him that he needs to hurry away from a mental breakdown and his new neighbor – whose existence he didn't even know of until ten minutes ago – has decided that the middle of the night is the perfect time for an impromptu ABBA concert. 

And still, he enjoys every minute of it. 

She's not that _bad_. Her voice is pleasant to listen to, almost silvery when she isn't trying to reach the high notes and failing spectacularly, and he can hear a bit of her accent as she hums along, coloring the words of the songs. It's clear she's not trained to sing, though, and she mostly does it just because she wants to – a thought that never occurred to him ever since he first started to work for Snoke. 

Doing things just because he _wants_ to. Just because he _enjoys_ them. Taking time out of his day to actually do things that make him _happy_. 

What a strange idea. 

Instead, his new neighbor seems to enjoy every bit of her singing, as if she were having the time of her life, humming along to ABBA on an otherwise quiet Thursday night in Coruscant. 

For the briefest moment, he allows himself to imagine her. He doesn't know why he does it – maybe he's tired and the defenses he usually retreats behind are slower to come up, or maybe he's kind of lonely, in the way only a thirty-year-old man with an alienating job in a big city can be. 

He doesn't know – he just knows he wants to hear her sing for the rest of his life, as if her terrible falsetto could bring him more happiness than anything else in the world. She sounds young and he can see her, in the back of his mind – a girl in her twenties, probably, jumping around her apartment to the sound of _Voulez-Vous_ now, singing along to the lyrics just because she feels like it. 

It's a chilly autumn night, and yet Ben feels warm, as if he'd spent the last ten minutes basking in the quiet, never-faltering light of the sun. 

*

He's got a terrible schedule at work, thanks to Snoke – he leaves home early in the morning and often comes back long after the sun has set, so he doesn't ever get the chance to meet his new neighbor.

And yet, she's a constant presence in his life. 

There's a plant that often needs watering on the landing right next to her door now and a new name on the mail boxes, a R. Niima that leaves him intrigued, even if he doesn't know why. She leaves a trace of herself everywhere she goes – the lift smells of lavender when he uses it after it's been waiting at their floor, and her bright-colored clothes gently sway in the wind when she leaves them on her balcony to dry for way too long. She tries to cook sometimes, even if she doesn't often succeed, judging by the burnt smell coming from the window. And, of course, there is her music. 

It's an ongoing tradition by now, unspoken and yet almost sacred in its simplicity. She puts on music every night and her tastes are the most peculiar – she goes from ABBA to Britney Spears, making space even for Queen, My Chemical Romance and Taylor Swift in between, and Ben hasn't ever met anyone who just enjoyed music the way the girl from apartment 4C does. She never fails to sing out loud at every song, and it makes his lips twitch in a smile that feels new and raw on his face, almost painful. 

He doesn't stop to ask himself when he had last smiled, because he's not sure he's ready to face the answer. 

He likes it, this weird thing they have going on, even if it's just on his part. She probably doesn't even know he exists, he reasons with himself – he's barely at home anyway and when he's here, he rarely makes any noise as he works at his laptop trying to finish the tasks Snoke has given him. He often feels like a ghost, going through life as if invisible, drifting through it as if he were some kind of leaf blown by a careless wind. And yet, ever since she moved in, he feels _present_ , as if this ritual of sitting at his desk while she belts out her off-key rendition of _Baby One More Time_ from her apartment had anchored him to his own life. 

It's crazy, but he kind of falls in love with her like this, just by hearing her sing, and he longs, he _dies_ to meet her. 

Fuck, he's lonely. He doesn't remember the last time he's actually interacted with another human being, with the exception of Hux or Snoke and he's not sure they actually are _human_ in the first place. He doesn't remember the last time someone has smiled at him or touched his hand or just _existed_ in his general proximity. 

And this girl – _God_. How can he be so fascinated by someone he's never met? How can he feel something so deep for someone who doesn't even know he exists? He knows she's got a life of her own and it doesn't revolve around him, and yet here he is, crushing pathetically on her, weirdly enthralled by her existence. 

But – she's a ray of light. It feels like he's been holed up in a dark room this whole time and she came in and drew the curtains and now – now there's the _sun_. And he knows she probably doesn't even think about him, if she knows about his existence in the first place. She's got a life and friends and all those things he secretly longs for, while he's pathetically obsessing over her, without even having seen her. And yet, the moment she puts on some music and starts to sing, his heart soars, as if she'd granted him the solution for all the world's problems.

What a pathetic excuse of a man, he is. How lonely can you be, if your only social interaction is hearing your neighbor sing her way through four decades of pop music? What an idiot he must be, for longing for someone he never actually met. For yearning for something that he can never have. 

And yet, he can't help himself. She's a siren, luring him to his own demise, and he follows her song as if spellbound. 

*

When he finally meets her, it's a revelation. 

It's barely 5 PM and it's the first time in months he leaves the office when the sun is still up. It's been a hard day at work and by the time he reaches his building, he's so tired he barely remembers how he got in – he only knows he's in the lift and he's about to punch the button for his floor, when a voice startles him. 

"Wait!" 

A girl comes barreling toward the lift and even if he's dazed, it's instinctive to keep the door open for her. She slips in easily, her long, soft-looking scarf trailing after her, and when the door closes, the only sound he can hear is the rapid bursts of her breath, and the way her errant heartbeat seems to echo in the confined space of the elevator. She brings a hand to her chest as if to quiet it down. 

It's kind of cute. _She_ is kind of cute – more than that, she's _entrancing_ , with warm hazel eyes and freckles on the bridge of her nose, the lines of her face sharp but lovely. Her hair falls around her face in a messy heap of deep brown and she pushes it out of her face with a quick movement of her hand. She looks very – _delicate_ , and yet so terribly determined. Larger than life, he'd say. 

He's never seen her around before, but after all, he's rarely seen anyone, with the way his work schedule seems to interfere with him actually having a life.

"Which floor?" he hears himself ask, though he has no memory of how he managed to utter the words, too entranced by her presence. 

She looks at him as if confused, then she must remember where she is, because her frown melts away and she smiles at him. It's such a bright, luminous smile, and he wonders–

Her voice is silvery and beautiful when she speaks. "Fourth floor." 

Oh. It's _her_.

"Oh. It _is_ you," he murmurs, almost reverently, as if he were witnessing something incredibile. "You're ABBA girl," he says without thinking, then he blushes up to the tip of his ears, because of course he's said it out loud and now she's looking at him as if to make sense of his words. 

She blinks at him. "ABBA girl?"

He punches the button for their floor, then brings the hand to the back of his neck, nervously rubbing his skin and avoiding to look at her. He doesn't remember the last time he actually talked with a human being and he wonders if you can forget how to, or if it's something that stays with you once you've learned it, like riding a bicycle. 

The point is, he doesn't think he's ever learned it in the first place. 

"Sorry, I– I live in the apartment next to yours and the night you moved in, you put on ABBA and started singing and I–" he explains, gesturing wildly and doing his best to look like a proper idiot, which is always an accomplishment from his part. "I started to call you _ABBA girl_ in my head." 

_I also started to fall in love with your existence like the complete loser I am_ , he thinks. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says, then. Her voice is just as silvery in person as it is with a wall standing between them and her accent is only more endearingly fascinating like this. He can sense the awkwardness in the confined space of the elevator, when she adds, "I like to put the music on to keep me company, but I didn't want to bother you–" 

"No!" It comes a little bit more forcefully than he'd like to and he cringes, cursing himself for his lack of social skills, only worsened by a decade of loneliness, alternated only by a few, sporadic visits to his parent's house in Chandrila. "I mean, it's nice. It keeps me company while I work."

He darts a glance into her direction and – oh, she's _smiling_. She's wrapped in a warm coat and she's got a huge scarf around her neck and she's somehow the brightest thing he's ever seen, shining in the static light of this lift as if she were made of stars and he doesn't know how to tell her he's halfway in love with her already because she's made his days impossibly better just by being herself. He knows it's creepy and he's a loser who hasn't managed to make any friends ever since moving in this fucking city, and yet – he can't help it. 

This girl – she feels like magic. 

"Oh, well, in that case–" She tilts her head to the side and flashes him another smile. Is it pathetic to be so worked up about the way her lips curve, when she smiles at him? Probably. Is he going to put a stop to all of this? Not likely. "You can knock on the wall anytime you feel like listening to music and I will do my best to oblige. I hope you like ABBA, though."

It's so easy to let out a breathless little laughter that he doesn't even question it, even if he's painfully aware of how new, how terribly incredible it is, to hear himself laugh. He doesn't remember the last time he did. 

He looks down at his feet, then, weirdly self-conscious as if laughing had made him vulnerable for the first time in years. Her gaze on him is gentle, though determined, as if she were studying him. 

"ABBA is more than fine," he tells her, then, mustering up the courage to look into her direction. He smiles – it feels painful, as if his muscles had forgotten how to. He's smiled more in these past five minutes than he did in the last year. "I like your taste in music." 

Her grin gets brighter somehow, and he notices she has dimples. Very fascinating, entrancing dimples.

"Thank you! It's so refreshing to meet another fine connoisseur of pop," she replies, cheerily. 

Before she can say anything else, the elevator door opens to their floor. It's almost jarring, as if in the span of this brief elevator ride, he'd somehow stepped into a different universe. One in which he manages to talk with the girl he's so enthralled by. 

She retrieves the keys from her bag, then lingers on her doorstep. Her eyes never leave his face when she speaks, and somehow she's still smiling. "I'm Rey." 

He nods, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. "Ben."

The freckles on her face look like a constellation, when the moonlight filtering through the window hits her just right, bathing her in a silver haze. She's beautiful. Somehow, in all the weeks he's spent listening to her singing, it hadn't occurred to him that her face might tug at some heartstring he's just now learning he possesses. 

"It was nice to meet you, Ben," she says, before disappearing into her apartment. 

Later that night, she puts on her ABBA playlist again. He can't stop smiling. 

*

Nothing changes after that fateful encounter, and yet – everything does. 

It's not just the music, or the fact that he has a face and a name to associate to the voice belting out the songs, or the fact that by now she seems to have a firm grasp on his music preferences, because she always put on something he enjoys greatly – no, it's the fact that he has something to look forward to.

Something to get him through another day at the office, something to make his day a little brighter, to make waking up in the morning worth it. Something that makes his soul _stir_ , as if waking from a ten-year-long slumber. 

It's pathetic. It's stupid. It's crazy. 

And yet, Ben doesn't think he's ever been _happier_. He feels _lighter_ , somehow, as if a weight he didn't even know existed had been lifted off his shoulders, and suddenly living is not a _chore_ anymore, but something he _wants_ to do. 

He's started to cook again in the evening, instead of relying on take-out and frozen pizzas, and the smell of it makes his tiny kitchen come alive again, after all the years in which he left it to dust. He's started to hum along to the songs Rey puts on with a smile on his lips, as if they were in the middle of the world's weirdest duet, with a wall standing between them. He's actually picked up a book and hasn't abandoned it two pages in. 

It's a revolution, and even his mother can tell something has changed when he calls her out of his own volition on a Sunday. She's surprised and she tells him as much, and there's a tenderness in her voice, when she murmurs, "You seem to be– I don't know, different. A good different." 

It makes his heart twist, and he thinks about visiting his parents for the first time in months. 

He's started to leave the office at the time he's supposed to, no matter how much Snoke protests, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Rey in the elevator. He's often rewarded – she comes back home at the same time and she smiles at him on their brief elevator ride, a smile that's always bright and sincere, that leaves him breathless and with a weird, fluttering feeling in his chest. 

"You've changed your schedule," she tells him, after a few weeks. 

It's not the first time he hears her talk – they've exchanged polite greetings upon meeting each other in the hall, after all. But it's the first time she actually tells him _something_ , it's the first time there's actually an intention behind her words, as if she _wanted_ to talk to him, and Ben is so surprised it takes him a moment to understand what's happening. 

He looks at her, as if to make sense of her. As if to divine why on Earth she would ever talk to him. "What?" 

There's a faint pink on her skin, dusting her cheeks in the most adorable of ways. 

"You've changed your schedule," she repeats, then, shifting her weight from feet to feet. She looks oddly nervous and embarrassed, which is uncharacteristic of her. "You used to come back home later. I– I used to hear you. The walls are paper thin, I mean– well, you already know that. You've heard my music." 

Oh. 

He's so surprised to realize she noticed it that he doesn't know what to say. 

It's just – so _new_. 

He doesn't think someone has ever paid attention to him in a long, long time. 

"Oh," he says, blinking at her. Then, his cheeks heat up and he knows he must be crimson, but he tries to play it off because she's looking at him and she's so adorably _flushed_ and he thinks he's in love, just like that. "Yeah, I– Work was killing me and I switched my schedule a little bit." 

Her cheeks are still red, but her eyes are impossibly bright and her smile is somehow the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "Good for you," she replies, then, sinking her hands into the pockets of her coat. "You look better these days." 

The door opens a few seconds after and she disappears again into her apartment before he has the chance to say anything else, but Ben stays there, staring at the place where she vanished for a while. 

*

_Thank you for watering my plant, I always forget about it. You're the best_ , she's written on a bright post-it she has left on his door. Her handwriting is messy, just as chaotic as she is – her _W_ s and her _M_ s look almost the same and she forgets to put a dot on the _I_ s. He finds it incredibly endearing. The plant next to her doormat is now lush and green and beautiful. He always keeps a glass of water near his entrance hall so he can always water it when the poor plant needs it. He doesn't mind. It feels good to do something for someone else. 

_Your one-woman version of One Day More from Les Mis was truly remarkable,_ he writes on a note he slips beneath her door one Tuesday morning, with his heart in his throat. That night she tries her best to sing every part in One Day More again, and Ben can't stop laughing for a while. 

*

She knocks at his door one Saturday evening. 

He's working at his dinner, when he hears the noise, and frowns down at the sauce he's currently stirring in a pot, as if he could divine what's going on like this. When it becomes apparent that the sauce, as wonderful as it may be, will not give him any answer, he sighs, lowers the flame on the stove and cleans his hands on the cloth he keeps nearby, before paddling toward his door. 

When he opens it, he stares at the scene in front of him for a few seconds. 

"Hi," Rey says, her smile almost a nervous thing on her lips. She shrugs, as if she were trying her best to shrink into her shoulders, and sinks her hands in the pockets of the oversized hoodie she's wearing. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, a few wisps of it clinging to her temples in the cutest way. His fingers ache to brush them away. "Sorry to bother you, I– you know what, it's stupid, nevermind–" 

He has to fight off the urge to reach out and gently close his fingers around her wrist. Instead, he clears his throat. "Rey," he says, tasting her name on his lips. She jolts at that, her eyes landing on his face as if searching for a meaning in the universe. "What is it?" 

"I–" She bites down her bottom lip before talking, an action that he finds way too _interesting_. He wills his blood not to flow any more south than necessary. "I was watering Björn– that's my plant, yeah, don't look at me like that, I _do_ remember to water it sometimes–" she tells him, flashing him an eloquent stare. 

He's too taken aback by the fact that she's given her plant a _name_ to actually tell her that he's been watering that poor plant for a month now.

"Anyway, I was watering Björn and then my door slammed closed and I didn't have the keys on me and– Look, I already called my landlord and he's coming over in a few hours, but it's terribly cold out there and I'm in my home clothes and– I promise I won't bother you, I–" 

"Come inside," he hears himself say. 

It happens before he even realizes what he's doing. She's not even finished talking and he's swinging his door wide open, moving to the side to let her in and Rey – she nervously looks at him, as if waiting for permission, as if stepping into his apartment were a sacred thing, and then she steps in all the same, breathing a sigh of relief. 

"Thank you," she breathes out, rubbing her arms up and down as if to warm herself up. "I was freezing." 

He lets out a little laughter, a not so rare occurrence ever since she appeared into his life in a blur of bright colors and cheerful pop music.

"Don't even mention it," he tells her, then runs a hand through his hair and nods in the general direction of the kitchen. "I was making dinner. Care to join me?" 

She does that thing again, in which she shrinks into her shoulders as if she wanted to disappear. Wrapped as she is in her giant hoodie, she looks even smaller, which only makes him want to put his arms around her and hold her against his chest, safely tucked against his body. 

This is going to utterly ruin him. 

"I don't want to bother you– wait–" She frowns, as if deeply confused, then sniffs the air. "What's that smell?" 

A smile comes to tug, unbidden, at his lips. "As I was saying, dinner."

She trails after him in the kitchen, as he steps in and reaches the stove. Nothing's burnt, luckily, so he stirs the sauce again and looks expectantly at Rey, a smile dancing on his lips without him even realizing. It's weird, having her in his kitchen, and yet it feels also oddly right, as if weeks and weeks of singing the same songs with a wall between them were always meant to bring them here, on a Saturday evening in his apartment. 

She's staring at him as if awestruck. "That smells _amazing_ ," she says, casting a surprised glance at the stove. "Are you a chef or something?" 

He laughs again, keeping an eye on the sauce and then weighting the pasta for her, too. She hasn't quite accepted his invitation, but the way she looks at what he's cooking doesn't leave much space for second-guessing, which is very fortunate, since he'd second-guess his whole existence if left to his own devices. 

"I just like to cook," he tells her, then, turning into her direction again. She's leaning against his tiny table and she makes such a pretty picture here, in his small kitchen, wearing comfy clothes and looking so incredibly at home. For a moment he likes to imagine she's at home – that this is where they both _belong_. "I always did, even when I was a kid. I– I had stopped cooking for a while because of how demanding work had gotten, but I've started again."

She hums, quietly, but there's a soft smile on her lips. A smile that looks both bright and tender, and that makes his heart twist in his chest. A smile that she's gifting to _him_ , of all people. 

"That's good." Her eyes linger on him for a second more, before she adds, "I'm glad you're taking care of yourself."

Oh. He had never thought about it that way. It feels weirdly significant – and yet, he likes the way it sounds. Likes the way Rey's eyes go soft, when she notices his surprised expression. Likes the touch of her hand on his clothed bicep, as if she wanted to reassure him.

It takes him barely a few minutes to set the table for her, too, and it surprises him to realize this is the first time he has somebody over for dinner ever since the day he moved in, when his mother had stopped by to help him settle in and had graciously accepted a slice of pizza from the nearest pizza place while sitting on his couch. It's been – hell, years now. 

His parents haven't visited in a long, long time and neither has he – they usually settle for a call, even though he senses a pang of longing from his mother every time she hears his voice. Or maybe, the longing is all his, and he's just projecting. Maybe he'll end up visiting just as he'd thought a few weeks ago. 

Now, though, there's Rey and she's a whirlwind of bright colors and happy laughs and he doesn’t feel as alone as he usually feels. It feels good, watching her sit at his table and voraciously eat the pasta he's made. She eats just as she does anything else – with a carefree attitude that makes some kind of warmth spread in his chest. 

"So," he tells her, tilting his head to the side. "Björn."

She lets out a soft chuckle. "Yes. Björn," she repeats, flashing him a teasing look. There's a glint in the back of those hazel eyes that makes his heart skip a few beats and he didn't know loving someone could be so _pleasant_. "I know, I know. You've probably saved that plant. Honestly, if it weren't for you, I'm not sure poor Björn would have lasted that long." 

He feels some kind of heat come up on his cheeks and he shakes his head, averting his eyes. "It's no trouble, I love Björn like a son." 

The small kitchen and his heart both fill with the sound of her laughter. 

"I swear I don't know how I manage to forget to water it every time. I mean, I know– I come pretty much from the desert. Jakku. Nothing ever grows there," she says, with an apologetic smile. She wrinkles her nose and she's so terribly cute his heart seems to grow three sizes, too big for his own chest. "Björn was a housewarming gift from my best friend Finn, but– I guess I've been stuck in the desert for too long. I tend to forget plants actually _need_ water." 

It's clear by the way she says it that a tendency to forget about correct hydration is not the only thing the desert has left her. It settles unpleasantly in his chest, because this girl – this vibrant, colorful girl who has barreled into his life one pop song at time – deserves only nice memories and pleasant things and he dies to be the one to give it all to her. 

"Well," he says, looking down at his hand, inches away from hers on the table. He wonders if he'll ever be brave enough to lace their fingers together and brush his thumb over her knuckles. He wants to, desperately. "As I said, it's no trouble. I can water Björn every time you forget." 

She smiles at him, so brightly he forgets his own name. 

Her landlord comes shortly after with a spare key and Ben walks her to her apartment, even if it's barely a few feet away from his. Rey thanks him for the pasta and bids him goodnight with a kiss to his cheek that steals the air from his lungs, then looks at him with glittering eyes and for a moment he thinks she's going to kiss him–

Then, she tilts her head to the side. "It was fun," she tells him. 

Her hand lingers against his, so close he could stretch out a finger and brush against her skin, and yet he doesn't. His heart is in his throat, a fluttering thing made of hope and longing. 

He smiles, too. It's not quite as painful as it used to be now. He suspects it's all Rey's doing. "Yeah," he murmurs. "It was fun." 

Before he can torture himself about it anymore, Rey reaches out and wraps her hand around his. Their fingers fit perfectly together and she brushes her thumb against the back of it with care, studying his reaction. It's the first time he holds someone's hand in years and it feels–

It feels _devastating_ , in the best way. 

She looks at him, bright hazel eyes shining in the moonlight coming from the window. "We should do that again." 

He doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the weekend. 

*

_Thank you for the cookies, they were great!!!!_ , she's scribbled on another bright, neon-colored post-it stuck to his door. Her overabundance of exclamation points elicits a new sort of warmth in his chest, as if she'd just wrapped him in the softest blanket known to mankind. If he bakes another batch of cookies just to leave them at her door next morning, then no one has to know. The smile she gifts him when they run into each other in the elevator is enough for him. 

_I think Bj_ ö _rn is growing too lush and luxuriant for his little vase. Maybe we should move him into a bigger one? I don't want him to die of suffocation_ , he tidely writes on a note he sticks on her plant's vase. Next afternoon, he finds himself with Rey by his side, in a gardener's store, to buy a new vase for what he affectionately considers their plant in his mind. The operation of moving Björn is quick and painless and she offers him a beer at her place after. He accepts. They end up watching half of Brooklyn Nine-Nine's first season on her little couch, and it feels surprisingly easy to wrap his arm around her shoulders when she leans into him, resting her head on his chest. For the first time in his life, he doesn't feel the need to second-guess himself. He just feels _quiet_. 

*

"Are you okay?" Rey asks him in the elevator, eyeing him with something that resembles concern in the back of her eyes. 

He gulps. It hurts, as if someone had just stabbed his throat with a million tiny needles, but he tries not to show it. 

"Yeah," he manages to croak. His voice sounds raspy and terrible and he wonders how awful he looks, here under the static light of this elevator. He feels both sweaty and cold at the same time and he doesn't know how that's possible, but apparently he does. "Just feeling a bit under the weather." 

Rey scrunches her nose in that adorable way of hers he's starting to anticipate when he says something dumb. 

"You sure?" she asks him, then, raising her eyebrows. "You look really pale and you sound– well, you don't sound good." 

He sniffles in an undignified way that would make him blush any other occasion, but he's too tired and worn out now to worry about it and a shiver runs through him, because he feels so fucking _cold_. He's been feeling like this the whole day and he just wants to crash on his couch and _sleep_. Possibly for a century and a half. 

"Yeah, don't worry," he tells her, waving his hand in her general direction. He feels dizzy and his head is starting to spin, so he's not actually sure if he managed to guess where she is. He tries to act nonchalant. "I just need to rest." 

The elevator door opens and he stumbles outside, his legs giving in. He's almost prepared to fall face first into the floor and he's learning to accept his fate and maybe the loss of his front teeth, when he feels something warm wrap around his middle and then–

Oh. 

Rey easily swings one of his arms around her shoulders and she pulls him into her, her grip so _firm_ on him as she holds him up. She's warm and she smells nice and Ben wants to lose himself in her embrace, wants to stay here forever, wants to never let go of her. 

She laughs, so softly, and he wonders if he's said that out loud. 

"Come on, sweetheart," she tells him, and oh. Oh. The _endearment_. He thinks he's going to combust because it feels so _good_ to hear the word slip past her lips, knowing she's talking to him. She's still got her arm wrapped around him and– God, it just feels _perfect_ , to know there's someone that actually cares about him. "Where are your keys?" 

He blinks a few times, then, trying his best to stay awake and present despite how drowsy he feels. "My coat," he manages to say. 

His throat hurts and the words come out as a broken thing, but Rey seems to understand him all the same, because she fishes his keys from the pocket of his coat with impressive dexterity for someone who's holding a six-foot-three man in her arms, and then the next thing he knows they're stepping into his apartment. 

She helps him on the couch and he gratefully sinks into it, his eyes fluttering closed before he can stop them. He wants to say goodbye to Rey and thank her for saving him from falling over like the miserable idiot he is, but he can't find the strength to move his lips. He hears a few noises in his living room and he figures Rey's leaving because of course she is, but then–

There's a hand on his forehead. It's cool and refreshing and oh, it feels so _nice_ against his feverish skin. He leans into the touch and barely realizes he's let out a soft whine when the hand disappears. 

"Hey," he hears Rey murmur, somewhere above him. It takes him a minute or maybe a few hours to open his eyes to look at her and she's so _close_ – bright hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles and those lips he's dreamt of kissing for quite some time now. "You're burning up. Do you have any tablets of medicine?" 

He blinks at her, trying to understand her. "I– I'm not sure," he says, then, sinking further into his couch. 

She sighs, softly. Her hands slide down and she pushes his coat off his shoulders in quick, efficient movements. It feels so good – her palms are warm but also refreshing against his burning skin and her fingers are gentle and it feels like being cared for, something that he realizes just now how much he's missed. 

That's probably why he adds, "This is not exactly how I imagined you undressing me." 

It takes him a moment to understand he's said that out loud, but the good thing about being sick – he can't actually blush more than he's already blushing from the fever, which is a relief. The bad thing is, apparently he's just confessed to Rey about wanting her to undress him. 

Her eyebrows rise up, but there's a smile on her lips. She comes in and out of focus, as he tries to blink himself awake, and she's – she's _blushing_ , but she also looks weirdly _happy_.

Her smile gets bigger and it almost turns into a smirk when she catches his gaze. "Oh, so you've imagined it?" 

He feels his skin on fire and he doesn't know if it's from the fever or the sheer power of his embarrassment. "Shit, I'm sorry, that was inappropriate, forget about it, I'm–" 

Her hands come to rest on his shoulders and then she's pushing him back on the couch, rubbing his arms as if to soothe him. He didn't realize he was trying to get up in the first place, but he follows her, willingly. 

"Sssh, it's alright," she whispers, softly. He swears he's dreaming, when she lets out a chuckle and adds, "I've imagined it too."

She gently brushes away a few strands of hair out of his forehead and before he realizes what he's doing, he nuzzles into her palm, desperate for any semblance of touch. She inhales, sharply, but doesn't pull away. 

"Do you have a blanket or something to cover yourself with?" 

He makes a non-committal noise and it takes him all his strength to actually reply. "Bedroom," he manages to say, which is a vague answer, but Rey seems to understand him all the same, because she smiles – and he can _hear_ that smile in the silence of the apartment – and gently pulls away from him, before disappearing out of his living room. 

What happens next is a blur. He lies down on his coach and it's not comfortable at all, with his suit clinging to his feverish body, but he doesn't have the strength to actually get up and get changed, and suddenly he's being wrapped in a soft blanket and there's someone – _Rey_ , she smells like Rey, like lavender and sunshine and all things good – pushing his hair away from his face and pressing a kiss to his burning forehead, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. 

He's not exactly sure, but he thinks he whines, burrowing into her touch when her hand slides down to cup his face. He doesn't remember the last time someone has touched him, not like this – so tenderly and gently, as if he were made of glass. He feels almost _cherished_ and it makes his heart ache.

"Wait here, sweetheart," she whispers, then, pressing another kiss to his forehead. Her lips are so soft and cool against his skin and it feels so _good_ to have her so close. He doesn't want to ever let go. She adds something else, something he can’t quite catch, but it doesn’t matter. He just loves hearing her talk – her voice is soothing and her accent sounds almost like a lullaby, pulling him under. "– alright? Don't move."

He doesn't have the strength required to tell her he doesn't think he's actually able to move, even if he wanted to. 

After this, he drifts in and out of sleep in a haze. He's vaguely aware of his front door clinking shut and he feels the absence of Rey almost as a physical sensation, stronger than the fever and the cold. He burrows into the blanket she has draped across his body as if to cling to his feverish memories of Rey, her face so close to his, her cool lips pressed against his flushed skin. He knows he should get up and do something – get started on dinner, take his medication, get changed – but he can't find it in himself to do anything and he wishes Rey were here, but–

– of curse she isn't. It isn't her job, to take care of him while he's sick. She's been kind enough to help him into his apartment and wrap him in a blanket, he can't ask anymore of her. 

He just wishes she were here. He just wishes to be cared for, for once. 

When he opens his eyes again, time has passed. He realizes it by the moonlight streaming through the windows of his living room, the only source of light beside the one coming from the kitchen. There's a faint noise coming from there too, mixed with the sound of someone humming under their breath and working at the stove. It evokes such a visceral reaction from him – as if this moment were a very specific tune his heart had started to beat to. 

The fever has not broken yet, but he feels less delirious now that he’s slept on it and he cringes at his own memories. He wraps the blanket firmly around his shoulders when he gets up and walks into the kitchen. It trails after him as a cape, but he's too dazed to care about that, because –

– Rey is here. 

It should be pretty obvious because who else could it ever be? She's the only human being he actually talks to. 

And yet, it comes as a surprise to him. 

She's still in her jeans and sweater, but she's shed the coat he'd seen her in when he'd met her in the elevator and she's tied her hair in a messy ponytail, the sleeves of her sweater rolled up to her elbows. She's put one of her playlists on her phone and she's humming along as she works at his stove, stirring something in a pot. His cold is so bad he can't actually smell anything, but–

"Are you making soup?" he asks her, of all things. His voice is still raspy, hoarse as if he'd spent the day screaming, and it comes out more as a whisper than anything else, yet Rey jolts all the same and turns into his direction so fast her ponytail whips against her face. It's so adorable his heart twists in his chest. 

He must make a sorry scene right now between his wrinkled suit and the blanket thrown over his shoulders, not to mention the state in which his hair must be and the whole fever thing. He must look ridiculous. He _feels_ ridiculous. 

And yet, she smiles. It's such a soft smile it tugs at something within his heart, as if she had yanked it into her direction. 

“Hey,” she says, then, stopping the music coming from her cellphone. Her voice is gentle, as if she didn’t want to startle him, and her eyes are so impossibly bright when she looks at him, in the warm light of his kitchen, leaning against the counter while she intently looks at him, as if to study him. “How are you feeling?”

He clears his throat, which still hurts terribly. “Less delirious,” he tells her, which is as much as he's willing to give. He’s still shivering and he wraps the blanket around his shoulders tighter, not bothering to think about how stupid he must look right now. He sniffles for good measure. “I’m sorry for everything I said when– well. Before. When I was–”

She interrupts his stammering with a vague gesture of her hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, with a shrug, as she turns toward the stove again, her eyes surveying the pot with the same attention she'd give to a ticking bomb, as if worried it could explode any minute. “You were sick, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

There’s a lot to apologize for, really – he’s pretty sure in his delirious state he’s told her all about how he wanted her to _undress_ him. And yet, here she is, making soup in his kitchen as if this were a normal occurrence between the two of them and it feels so _intimate_ , so blissfully _domestic_ his heart feels on the verge of bursting. He wants to live in this moment for the rest of his life.

He doesn't think anyone has ever made the effort to take care of him like this. 

“Is that–” He swallows, feeling like he’s just swallowed his heart down. “Is that soup?”

Rey turns slightly into his direction, giving him a flash of the bright smile that always renders him speechless.

“Yeah, I texted my friend Rose for the recipe,” she explains, then, her eyes returning to the pot currently on the stove. “I mean, I can’t promise I won’t burn it, but still. You looked like you needed it. Oh, I also bought you some paracetamol, I couldn't find any in here.”

It feels impossible. He can’t wrap his mind around it because it's just – it's just _too much_. The girl he's painfully in love with – this radiant flare of a human being, so incredibly gentle and kind, the one who always forgets to water her plant but makes time to leave cheerful post-its to his door – is here, in his apartment, taking care of him while he's sick.

He doesn't understand it. He doesn't think he _can_ understand it. 

"Here," she tells him, then, not bothered in the slightest by his silence. She hands him a glass of water, then looks at him with such a tender expression on the lovely lines of her face that he feels his chest go awfully tight. "You should drink something. Soup is almost ready." 

He complies and takes a sip of the water, never taking his eyes off her, as if she could disappear otherwise. 

"Why?" he asks her, in the end. It comes out as a whisper and his voice is so faint he wonders if she's heard him, but of course she has. She turns into his direction, a confused frown on her face. "I thought you'd left. Why are you here?" 

A lovely shade of pink comes to dust her cheeks when she replies, and he's suddenly gripped by the urge to press his lips against her skin just to feel that blush underneath his mouth.

"Shouldn't I?" 

How can he tell that yes, of course she should? That she should stay here for the rest of her life, that he wants her here and never wants to let her go, because she's turned his life upside down with her off-key rendition of _Dancing Queen_ and he doesn't think he can ever go back to who he was before, and he doesn't want to? 

He just shakes his head. "Of course you should. I love having you here," he says, with a shiver. He doesn't know if it's the fever or the fact that he's being so vulnerable with her, but she looks at him and her eyes are so terribly gentle and he's not scared anymore. "But I'm sick and– you shouldn't do this. You _don't have_ to do this." 

She's a good deal shorter than him, and yet, when she comes to stand in front of him to push his hair out of his forehead and gently cradle his face into her hands, he feels way smaller, a fragile thing underneath her touch. 

"I want to be here, I want to be with you. I _care_ about you," she tells him, softly. Her palms are still so blessedly cool against his burning skin and it feels so good to have someone be gentle with him, caressing him with the same gentleness she'd reserve for something precious. "You don't have to be alone, sweetheart."

It makes him want to cry, because – he's been alone for more than he can tell. Maybe he's always been alone, even when his parents were around. And then Rey burst into his life one pop song at time, and now – now he doesn't feel as alone as he used to feel.

He doesn't know how to tell her that, so he just smiles at her. It doesn't hurt at all, now. She smiles back, and he knows she knows.

Maybe that's why he does the brave thing and tells her, "I really want to kiss you." 

His confession is met with a moment of terrifying silence and he wonders if he's misread this whole situation, if she's just being kind, if he's ruined this too–

But then, Rey smiles. It's such a beautiful thing, so tender it takes his breath away, and his heart starts to beat frantically in his chest, as if it wanted to catch her attention. 

Her answer is a soft, whispered thing in the small space between them. "You do?" 

He nods. One hand is still curved around the glass she's handed him before, but the other comes to brush against her waist, gently, as if to test this out. When she doesn't pull away but, instead, leans into his touch, his heart soars and his grip becomes more firm. 

"Yes. I want to kiss you so _badly_ , I've wanted to for weeks," he murmurs. Her hands are still cradling his face and it would be so _easy_ to bend down and– "But I can't. I don't want to get you sick." 

The laughter she lets out is silvery and soft and perfect and he loves her so much it feels like his heart is trying to escape his chest. 

"Well then," she says, her lips still curved into that breathtaking smile. "Guess you'll have to get better so you can kiss me silly." 

It sounds like a plan. 

He eats the soup she's made for him without uttering a protest, then swallows his paracetamol down. Rey patiently waits for him to get changed into something more comfortable than his wrinkled suit and then tucks him in bed, wrapping the sheets around his frame, and he feels so wonderfully cared for he wants to cry. 

Maybe it's the medicine that's making him delirious again, because he grasps her hand and intertwines their fingers together, before she can leave the bedroom. 

"Please don't go," he begs her. It comes out as a whine, but he's too worn out to care about it and he isn't afraid to show her how much he longs for her. 

Her answer is a soft smile and a kiss to his forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."

She only lets go of his hand to climb into bed next to him, her arm swung around his waist, her face buried between his shoulder blades. Not a word is uttered out loud, and yet he feels it in the way she holds him, how easy it is for her, too, this feeling. He doesn't shiver as much, when she wraps her arms around him as if to protect him.

"Rey?"

Her answer is a muffled "Mh?" against his t-shirt. 

He clears his throat again, which hurts less after eating something warm. "Why do you put the music on every evening?" 

He doesn't know why he asks. It's such a trivial thing, and yet it matters to him. 

Her hand runs up and down his arm, gently, making him shiver in the best way. He welcomes it gladly. 

"I guess– I do it because I don't want to feel alone," she murmurs, against his back. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it carries so much stirring emotions underneath the quiet surface of her tone and he doesn't know if it's the fever or if it's just Rey, but he finds himself close to tears, because he knows what it means to be alone and he never wants her to go through it. "After Jakku, when I moved here, I– I lived with my best friend, Finn. The one who got me Björn. And it was so nice, having someone for once, you know? But now he's getting married and he's moving in with his fiancée and– I mean, I'm happy for them, but it's hard to be on my own again. I guess the music is just a way to feel less alone." 

He quietly rolls over in her arms and looks at her. He can barely make out her face in the darkness, but he can see her eyes, the way they shine even like this. She's holding her breath, as if afraid of exposing so much of herself. 

His hand rests on the gentle curve of her waist and she exhales at that, as if soothed by his touch. "You're not alone." 

"Neither are you," she tells him, and he knows it's finally the truth. 

*

_By the time you'll read this I'll probably be already at work. I really, really wanted to stay with you this morning but I couldn't call in sick. I'm so sorry. You looked really peaceful in your sleep and I didn't want to wake you up, sorry for not saying goodbye. There's still soup in the fridge. Take care of yourself, please? Can you do that for me? I'll swing by after work. Miss you already._

_Love, Rey._

_P.S. I called in sick for you. The guy on the other side of the phone sounded really pissed but I gave him a piece of my mind. Fucking jerk._

The note has been left on his bedside table, and Ben traces her messy handwriting with his fingers, and his heart is a fragile little thing in his chest. He finally feels at home.

*

He's holding a plate of freshly-baked cookies when he knocks on Rey's door and he feels nervous, even more than usual. 

She opens the door almost immediately, as if she were waiting for him, and Ben's heart does the thing it always does when she's around – it stops beating for a second, then starts to go frantic in his chest, beating so loudly he's pretty sure she can hear it. 

Still, he's not so sure he minds. 

"Hey," Rey says, smiling at him as she stands there in the doorway. She's wearing another one of her oversized hoodies and her hair falls in messy waves around her face and he's acutely aware of how beautiful she is, as if she'd stabbed him in the chest with her beauty. "How are you feel– Oh my God, are those _cookies_?" 

His lips curve in a smile before he even realizes and he hands her the plate he was holding. Rey grabs it with an awestruck expression on her face and Ben feels so _warm_ , as if he'd been sipping on a mug of tea this whole time. 

"Yes, for you," he replies, then, bringing a hand to the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. "A thank you gift for putting up with me while I was sick." 

Rey scoffs, then, swinging her door wide open. "I wasn't putting up with you, you idiot. I was taking care of you and you don't have to _thank me_ ," she tells him, and despite her words, her voice is soft, gentle, and her eyes glitter in the light of the afternoon. "Come inside." 

He doesn't need to be told twice and follows her inside her apartment. He's been there a few times before, so it doesn't come as a surprise to him, and yet, it still warms his heart to realize how _lived_ it is. The layout is pretty much the same of his own apartment, and yet there's a _coziness_ to it that his one lacks. Maybe it's the shelves filled with objects and books and photos, maybe it's the bright colors and the slight mess of it all, but it feels _loved_ , and it makes his heart twist in his chest at the thought that she's managed to make a home out of this apartment in the span of a few months, something he hasn't been able to do in years. 

She's made a home out of his heart, too. 

"I never told you–" he says, then. He feels close to tears, which is stupid when he thinks about it, because he's crying over an apartment, but this is the effect Rey often has on him, as if she'd awoken a part of him that had been asleep for too long. The part of him that _feels_ , so deeply it hurts. He had let it die, back when he'd first started working for Snoke because it only made him miserable, but now it comes alive with the touch of her fingertips against his, and he _loves_ it. "I love what you have done to the place. It feels very– Very _you_ , I guess." 

She blushes, an entrancing shade of pink that makes her freckles stand out, and shakes her head, softly. "Thank you," she replies, then sets the plate on her kitchen counter and grabs one cookie, proceeding to bite into it. "These are so good. You're a great baker." 

It's his turn to blush and he averts his eyes, embarrassed by the way his heart soars in his chest at every praise coming from her. He doesn't want to explore that thought just yet. 

"It's nothing," he says, then, with a dismissive shrug, sinking his hands in the pocket of his jeans. "I know you liked the cookies last time and I thought I could– I don't know. I wanted to thank you for everything." 

The soft sigh she lets out is the only sound he can hear in this quiet afternoon, the light of the sunset filtering through her yellow curtains and dancing around them. When he raises his eyes, she's looking at him and she's bathed in a pink and orange haze and she’s _stunning_ and he's never been more in love. 

"Ben," she says, so gently, as if his name were a sacred thing. "You don't have to thank me. Helping you and taking care of you– it wasn't an _effort_. I wanted to." 

He doesn't know what to say, because he doesn't remember a time in which he hasn't felt like a burden, and here she is, stepping closer to him and looking at him as if he were a universe in his own right and saying things like that, and he knows his heart has been hers since the very first time he heard her sing from the other side of the wall, but now he dies to tell her just that. 

"I–" he tries to say, but no word comes out of his mouth, because this is so _big_ and he never learnt how to put into words what he's feeling. He shakes his head, softly. "I don't know what to say." 

She smiles, tenderly. In the space of this brief conversation, she's gotten so _close_ and his heart makes a fluttering sound that echoes in the small space between their bodies. He can count the freckles on the bridge of her nose, the ones on her hairline, on her forehead. 

"You don't have to say anything. I didn't do it because I wanted you to thank me," she whispers, placing her hand on his forearm, as if to anchor him to this moment or to prevent him from leaving. He doesn't know how to tell her that he doesn't want to be anywhere else in the world. "I did it because I care about you and I don't want you to be alone. Not when you don't have to. But if you really want to _thank me_ –" 

He gulps, looking at her as if spellbound. "Yes?" he asks her, eagerly. 

"You've talked of a _kiss_ , the other day," she says, looking at him through her lashes. Her eyes are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and she's so _close_ – "Will you kiss me now, Ben? I've been waiting for a while." 

There's a lot of things he wants to say right now – he wants to ask her if she's sure about this, if she feels the way he feels, if she can hear the way his heart is beating against his ribcage just for her. He wants to tell her that he's never felt this way and that if he's shaking right now it's just because his body – the whole six-feet-three and however many pounds of it – seems to be too small to contain the enormity of his feelings. 

He says nothing. 

Instead, he gently cradles her face into his hands and kisses her. She tastes like chocolate from the cookie she's eaten and her lips are so sweet he thinks he might die like this and he'd be totally fine with it. The softest little noise escapes her mouth when he deepens the kiss and she loops her arms around his neck, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater as if to reassure herself he's real, and he's shivering again in her embrace, just because of the way she's kissing him. It's intense, and yet soft, a contradiction just like Rey. 

"Wow," she murmurs, against his lips, when she breaks away from him just enough to breathe. Her mouth is pink from all the kissing and she looks so _vibrant_ his eyes almost hurt. "Now, that was– That was definitely worth the wait." 

He laughs, quietly and yet fully, and he feels so absurdly _happy_ he almost wonders if he's dreaming. But he's not, because Rey is very real in his arms and she's pulling him down in another kiss that's just as real and oh, oh, _oh_. 

"Do you want to come over for dinner?" he asks her, then, between kisses. He finds himself unable to stay away from her lips, but she doesn't seem to mind because she hums, appreciatively, when he leans in for another kiss. "I'll make you anything you want." 

She laughs against his mouth, her hands splayed on his back. "Do you have to ask?" she replies, raising her eyebrows. Her smile is dazzling, and he thinks he'll gladly let her blind him for the rest of his life. "I'll put ABBA while you cook." 

*

_Dinner at mine tonight? I promise to try my best not to burn anything up_ , she's written on a neon pink post-it she's stuck to his door. 

_Sweetheart, why would you ever get another plant if you always forget to water the first one?_ _I'm genuinely confused_ , he scribbles on a note he sticks to the new plant's vase. 

_For the love of God, now there's two of you who listen to ABBA????? – Kaydel from 3C who dearly wishes her upstairs neighbors knew about the invention of the headphones,_ they find stuck to the wall between their apartments. They don't stop laughing for a while. 

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, i'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/akosmia) and [tumblr](http://kylorensx.tumblr.com) probably shitposting about the lockdown *fingerguns* also, i still plan to keep writing the fluffiest fluff ever to keep the existential dread at bay, so see you soon, hopefully ♥


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